


once more, with feeling

by bringmayflowers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmayflowers/pseuds/bringmayflowers
Summary: In seven years, Draco and Harry go from strangers, best friends, roommates, to lovers. And then strangers. Again.(Draco wonders if they’re destined for the same fate in other universes too.)
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	1. final

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [citizens of the sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143705) by [minhyukwithagun (deadlylampshades)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlylampshades/pseuds/minhyukwithagun). 



They say marks define a person’s life. Each one has a significant meaning, shows a different path chosen, the map of someone’s life. But the most special was the one each person got that just stood out a little more—more vibrant, colours sharper, lines more defined. So when the strikingly white rose appeared on Draco’s arm at 12, he didn’t really know, but he  _ knew _ . 

Of course he didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it would grow in significance as his soul matured.

Everyone had them. At school, it was commonplace to see interesting ink marking everyone’s arms and legs, different colours and shapes and sizes.

He’s in the library when he’s finally had enough. Enough of hydrocarbons, and alcohols, and—aldehydes? He’s not really even sure anymore. Draco drops his head on the desk, pillowing his head on his bent arm. It just so happens that his sleeve falls down enough that the rose is right there, stark white, staring back at him.

The colour seems to match his hair, almost scarily so. He wonders what it means, what piece of his soul it represents. He touches it, looking at the ink underneath, trying to find some semblance of meaning.

“You know, sometimes they said your soul mark can transcend even alternate universes, or past lives if your soul is really strong.”

Draco quirks his eyes up, staring at the bespectacled, dark-haired boy standing across from him, head tilted.

He knows his name, of course. This isn’t that big of a school. But they’ve never really spoken. Harry Potter. He scrunches his nose, he remembers now. His parents had scoffed at the name; despite it being relatively normal, his parents had always thought it was “too fantastical” and more like one from a novel than a real name.

“Really? How do you know?” He hopes his lack of research isn’t shown through his tone, not wanting to seem dumb in front of this intelligent-seeming classmate.

The other sits down at the other seat at his table, pulling out a large hardcover book from under his arm that Draco hadn’t even noticed. There are little page markers scattered throughout the book, a variety of colours flashing as Harry flips through the pages, in a way that almost seems practiced.

He finally gets to the page he wants, and points to a small paragraph at the top left.

“See?” He grins, proud to show off that what he’s saying, is in fact theorized by others.

Draco pulls the book closer, and despite trusting the other, wants him to stay and talk more.

_ Special marks have always existed, most people having only one. These often differ because they are more vibrant, have colours that differ from one’s overall scheme, or are in a different style than others. Some have also reportedly said that there is a certain feeling associated with it, one never experienced with any other marks. _

_ A small percentage of the global population are unsure of the meaning of their soul marks, reportedly not having any different routines or meeting new people when receiving their soul marks. Research teams have theorized that, in this small number of people, they appear because of past lives and/or because of the same soul appearing in alternate universes. Their souls are so independently strong that the same motif recurs throughout the universe, existing alongside their soul.  _

_ However, that is a very small minority. Most know the meanings of their markings, and appear at significant, life-defining moments—whether or not that is known at the time. _

Draco sits back with a thoughtful hum. “But how do they know that past lives or even alternate universes even exist? And if they don’t, then where are these images from?”

At this, Harry humphs, feeling dismissed. He grabs his bag as he moves to stand. “Fine. You know what? You can keep ruining all these cool ideas and instead be stuck in your little, small-minded world with your—”

As he’s about to turn (read: flounce) away, Draco grabs his arm. “No. Sorry! Hold on,” Harry turns back, gives him a withering look.

“Sorry, look, uh, I’m just a little skeptical,” Harry looks even more upset at this. “But definitely open to hearing more! If you’d tell me about it,” Draco attempts a half smile, hoping he comes off as genuine and not creepy. 

Harry's eyes soften, and he reaches down to grab his book again. But Draco’s loose sleeves have fallen to his elbow again, his white rose visible to the world, and most notably Harry’s eyes.

His eyes catch onto the flower, and Draco feeling self-conscious quickly pulls his arm away, smoothing his sleeve over his arm. 

“Uh, sorry.” Harry rubs the back of his neck, then remembers the book. He drops his bag back on the table, pulls the white book back out, and sets it on the table. Draco can see now that it’s title,  _ Soul Markings: The Comprehensive Guide _ .

He didn’t even know books like that existed.

Draco shoves his chemistry papers into his bag, folding them despite knowing that his teacher will chastise him for the bent pages.

They spend the rest of the afternoon, the blue of the sky fading to black, in the library, poring over each page of the book. 

(Draco wonders what the other has for a mark for him to wonder so much about it, do so much research for. But he doesn’t ask.)

The two happen to share a history class in the next semester, learning about ancient civilizations and diving into thousands of years of history together. 

After just one semester, they’ve gotten so close that Draco knows all the doubts Harry has about his soul mark. It’s on his lower neck below his ear, trailing down the side and ending right over his shoulder. A pale-yellow, nearly white lightning bolt that has no significance on his life, never having seen a real strike of lightning before and nothing of significance happening around the time it’d settled in.

They bond over the unknown meanings of their marks, wondering what it could mean and what they were in their past lives, who they were. 

This is one of those days where they daydream about the different realities, where Harry isn’t as weighed down with homework, the sparkle in his eye appearing as they lay on the fresh spring grass outside the school.

“I wonder if we’d still be friends in other universes,” Harry sighs, staring up at the blue clouds. Draco pulls at a leaf, ripping off the sides so only the middle, thickest vein is left.

Harry turns to him, glimmer visible even from behind his glasses, “What if we were enemies, and hated each other? Oh oh! What if we could do magic?”

Draco can only laugh, the other’s ideas so ridiculous that he wonders how he even came up with them.

Then he sees Harry’s smile suddenly crumble, just like the leaf stem he’d just demolished. Harry starts ripping at the grass anxiously, and this prompts Draco to tenitavely ask, “What’s wrong?”

Harry’s eyes meet his, and they’re brimming with sudden unshed tears. Draco rushes to put a supportive hand on his shoulder.

“What if… what if my parents didn’t survive in another world?” Harry sniffles, and Draco leans him into himself for comfort, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. 

Draco knows the story, knows how much it haunts Harry. His parents had been in a car crash when he was young, going to pick up Harry from his aunt’s house. If the car had skidded just a little more, his parents wouldn’t be here now.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Draco rubs his upper arm with his other hand, hoping the movement comes off more as comforting and less like petting an animal. 

After a while, sitting and watching other classmates walk by, he moves to take his arm away. Harry makes a small wounded noise, and Draco almost jumps. 

“What’s wrong? You know your parents are fine, and even more careful than before. It’ll be OK, they’ll definitely be there for your graduation.”

“I, I just…” he trails off, not knowing where he was going. “That was nice. Soothing. Your arm,” Harry flushes even redder than before, his ears turning a bright red. Draco didn’t think it was that cold today.

His brain finally registers, and he wraps his arm back around him. Draco rocks slightly, onto his back on the small hill. Looking at the sky, there’s almost something… otherworldly about it. Like it’s too beautiful to be part of Earth. He wonders if all of his other souls felt this, looked up at the same sky.

The afternoon is spent there, Draco dreaming about all his other possible worlds and souls, and whether or not certain people were in those worlds as well.

(His parents, definitely. Maybe Harry. But just as friends.)

(Definitely just friends.)

Alongside Harry, time seems to stutter; it drags at times and flies, unbidden, at others. Draco distinctively remembers his final exams taking painful hours and hours, but at the same time, he blinks, and his Sophomore year flickers to Junior and more, and suddenly, Harry is jumping up and down with glee because he got into his top university.

Draco got into that one, too. It seems like the rest of their lives were already mapped out for the two of them. Best friends, moving in beside the same campus together, making the transition from secondary school to university nearly seamless.

What isn’t written in this plan however, are the girls. It seems like everyone else is just as drawn to Harry’s witty intelligence and sparkly eyes as he is, and he finds himself with competition. 

(He’s not quite sure what for… It’s not like Harry didn’t have other friends, but Draco doesn’t like to dwell on this too much.)

Competition comes in the form of a girl in Harry’s program, which unfortunately means the two share many lectures together. And apparently social outings too, outings that Harry swears aren’t dates, that the two are “just friends”. Draco doesn’t dignify these protests with anything but huffs. 

Even her name matches his too—something almost out of a fantasy novel… Harmony maybe? He can barely remember, only his rising emotions threatening to burst as he thinks of Harry with someone else. He had pushed his eggs aside and steamed in his room for a while, but eventually came out and apologized for his weird mood swing.

(It was odd, he seemed to be getting more of those recently. Huh.)

But Harry brushing his teeth before a “casual friendly meeting” at a cute cafe that Draco has only known couples to frequent is not convincing him of anything.

He’s lucky this “Harmony” girl came with a plus one already. The way Draco finds out is that night, after he comes home from their not-a-date-date. Harry flops immediately onto the couch, staring blankly at the TV, previous shy smile as he left completely wiped off.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Date not go well?” Draco tries his best not to hiss the word “date”, but he’s not even sure he heard him.

He grabs a glass of water for him and Harry finally moves. He swallows the entire glass in large gulps. wiping his mouth after and handing the glass back.

“She,” he pulls at his sleeves, “she has a boyfriend.”

Draco almost sighs in relief, but recognizes the upset mood of his best friend and does his best to console.

“Hey, you said it wasn't a date, right? So nothing to be disappointed about! She’s probably dumb and ugly anyways, that, that,” He searches his memory for the name again. “That Harmony girl. She’s nothing; you can definitely do better than her.”

Harry sighs, sighs up straighter, and can only muster out a, “Hermione.”

“What?”

“Her name. It’s Hermione.”

“Oh,” Draco isn’t sure what else to say, so does the only motion he knows how. Wrapping his sweatshirt-covered arm around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him towards him.

Like those many years ago, the two lean back on the couch and stare up, the movements on the TV casting different lights across the ceiling that bounce around.

Draco wonders what it would be like one day, when him and Harry each have their significant others, when they have their own lives separate from each other. Would they even still be friends? Draco can’t even picture a future like that, no Harry when he comes out of the shower, nagging at him to “Pick up his dirty towels goddamnit I am not your mother, stop making me sound like her,” and about not leaving the TV on just for “background noise because it wastes electricity and it’s  _ them _ that have to pay the bills now,” enunciated with a remote controller thrown at him.

But, he supposes, across a thousand, a million, amounts he can’t even think of of alternate universes, it could happen. Even ones filled with dragons, magic, fancy live-in academies, and best of all: human-sized mazes like he used to dream of as a young child.

(But they live in this universe, and the only thing Draco can tangibly feel is Harry drifting to sleep beside him, tired out from the emotional rollercoaster of his day. His shoulder digs into Draco’s armpit, but it isn’t a bad life, he supposes.)

By the time they enter their third year, the two are nearly dating. Or that’s what everyone thinks.

“Hey, can you ask your boyfriend if he can give back my notebook? He borrowed it for some notes, and never gave it back,” Neville calls out from beside Hannah, the three of them packing up after a lecture.

Draco can hear his neck audibly crack and regrets picking a 10am class. “What boyfriend? This is news to me.”

“You know…” Neville manages an awkward laugh as the three exit the hall thinking he was being teased. Draco didn’t laugh with him, “Wait, you’re serious? You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Draco is just as confused and bewildered as Neville looks, while Hannah just looks exasperated.

“Like, practically the entire year thinks you and Harry are dating.”

Draco, at the head of the group, nearly trips Hannah as he stops abruptly, “What?”

“Yeah, like, everyone knows. You guys are always together and touchy and live together… everyone just assumed so. Are you guys really not?”

Draco’s brain starts running circles around his mind, flashing back to all the moments previous. Had they implied that? They hadn’t done anything intimate, but he supposes others could just think they’re more private—he now reconsiders everyone he's met, wondering why it took so long for one person to mention it to him or Harry.

He stands in the middle of the courtyard, and is so frozen that Hannah whispers to Neville, “You broke him. Good luck explaining that to his boyfriend.”

Neville shoves at her, but she dodges just in time, laughing so hard her bag nearly falls off her shoulder. Her phone falls to the ground and she picks it up, dusting the dirt off.

She sees the time and gasps, “Draco, don’t you have that 10:30 lab? And at the Slughorn Building, you better hurry!”

Draco finally snaps out of whatever flashback he was in, panic in his eyes. His eyes dart around, refocusing, and registers the words. He takes off at a sprint, not even bothering to say a goodbye to his friends.

He didn’t hear the faint yelling of something about a notebook before he turns a corner, wind whipping in his ears and blood rushing that he couldn’t hear anything even if he tried.

(“Those two really need to figure their shit out,” Hannah rights her bag.

“I know, right? Have you seen the way Draco looks at him? That’s kind of unbelievable, that he himself didn’t even know.”

Hannah’s hair whips around her ears, almost covering the patch of aurora borealis pattern that rests beneath it, mirroring the one on Neville’s inner elbow that he’s had since he was two. And Neville grabs her hand, the simple daisy chain imitating the chain of wildflowers she’s had on her ankles since elementary school. 

Lucky bastards.)

Draco completely forgets about the conversation as lab class, then practice labs, then midterms sweeps him up in a flurry of being too busy. Harm- Hermione comes over often, and even brings her boyfriend around sometimes. Draco could never forget his bright red hair, parked on his couch when he walked in with takeout one night. 

(Mostly, he can’t forget about the jealousy that welled in his throat before realizing who he was.)

But now he can stand Hermione without that weird pressure in his chest—super odd, maybe something about the perfume or deodorant she uses?—he keeps forgetting to ask her.

So after his first semester exams are over, he decides it’s suitable to go out and party—rather, he  _ deserves _ it for what he’s been through. Or what previous him thought.

Present him thinks sunlight should be illegal and curtains should be mandatory for all buildings. Or at least all university dorm rooms.

His (blessed) arm comes up to block some of the sunlight, and he groans. He didn’t think it was standard to have a pounding headache, a gavel banging against the back of his eyes like an overexcited judge.

He wonders where Harry is; he’d decided not to go out last night, and usually helps with Draco’s standard hellish hangovers as the responsible one in their rela- friendship. He manages to stand without falling back over, pull on a random hoodie draped over his chair, and makes it to the bathroom, all with eyes semi-closed.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, his eyes have regained their normal level of sight and he can see Harry at the breakfast bar, nursing his traditional morning coffee. He turns when he hears Draco (who has made no attempt to be quiet; if anything he was doing the opposite) and looks almost… nervous? But he does the standard Harry thing: pulls a mug down from a cabinet and fills it with hot coffee. 

It’s passed to Draco without a word, and he lifts it to his lips.

Scalding. As bitter as eating a coffee bean whole. Tongue-destroying. Just how he likes it.

He slumps to the table after finishing half a mug in silence, while Harry stays uncharacteristically quiet, mug fogging up his glasses. Usually, by this point he’s making fun of or scolding him, both about something he did the previous night.

“What happened last time? Did I do anything dumb again?” Draco looks up at his face, searching for any twitch to give away the possibly (definitely) dumb things he did again.

Harry flushes a bit (but maybe that’s just the coffee?) and gulps down the rest of his mug hurriedly. He drops the mug against the countertop, defeat seeping out of his pores. He twists the sleeve of his sweater around his finger, not meeting Draco’s eyes.

This only serves to scare him more. What if he did something stupid, danced dumb and someone got it on video? Or worse, what if it was videotaped? What if he accidentally injured someone? Or worse, said something bad about his teachers? People have been expelled for less—

“We kissed,” he breathes out, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes peek out from the edge of his hair, still mussed from sleep.

“What…” Draco gapes, and luckily Harry understands the rest of his unfinished sentences, because he launches into a full retelling of the night.

“Well really, I got up because  _ someone _ was banging at the door and at first I thought it was that annoying first year that lives down the hall?” Draco nods along, his brain feeling like it’s using an old Windows Vista OS. “Yeah, anyways, turns out it  _ wasn’t _ him, and instead was you, drunk out of your mind. You almost died like three times by the way, twice from tripping and the third from thinking the toilet was the sink. Then I finally managed to get you changed, but you ran back into the kitchen—where you’re sitting right now basically—and I had to chase you to get you into bed.” Harry hesitates here, biting his lip and looking almost scared of continuing. He takes a beat, but continues. 

“But then you kissed me smack dab on the lips, giggled and said, ‘You’re too cute,’ and ran back into your bedroom. And by the time I was there you were knocked out completely. So yeah. That happened.” While on his tangent, Harry had kept picking at his sleeve, the drawstrings of his pants, even mussing at his hair and chewing on his hoodie string—basically doing anything to avoid looking at him.

“I’m so sorry, really, I, you know I get really drunk—”

“I— would you be mad if I said I didn’t mind it?” Harry says in one breath, looking away, he peeks from beyond his fringe, pulling and picking at his bangs. 

This is too much information for Draco’s delicate brain. The judge is back, with two gavels on either side of his brain this time. He wants to pull Harry into a hug and say “never, never would” but he can’t, his rational side is still there and despite it being drowned out by everything else, is telling him he  _ can’t _ .

He gets up, socked feet slipping and causing him to nearly trip and die (third time in the past twelve hours, that must be some sort of record?) he barely managed to catch himself on the other barstool at the last second.

“I— I can’t right now. I’ve just, I’ve got to go back to sleep and wake up… well, never again would be preferable for now,” he trails into a mumble and musses his hair, nothing else to occupy his hands as he walks back to his room. He can feel Harry’s eyes on his back, searing through the thick material of his hoodie, but doesn’t turn back. Can’t.

Despite the half-mug of coffee he had, he knocks out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He wakes up, bleary-eyed. What a crazy dream he thinks to himself; he can’t believe how weird that was. He rushes out of bed, picks up a hoodie that he must’ve thrown down at some point and slips it on. He rushes out, wanting to tell this crazy dream to Harry before he forgets it like all his ones before. He isn’t in the kitchen, so Draco pulls open the door. But all that greets him is the nicely made bed, golds and burgundies colouring the room. He quickly backs out, retreating to the living room. Only then does he notice outside.

The sky is pale, sun just beginning to poke out of the horizon. Birds are still flying back and forth, and no lights can be seen in the other nearby apartment buildings. He sinks into the couch, not sure what to do. He wonders where Harry’s gone at such an early hour.

Somehow Draco must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he remembers waking up to is the front door banging open and startling him awake. 

Harry walks in, earbuds firmly shoved in, back from some sort of workout session it seems. He’s in tight clothes, an armband attaching his phone to his upper arm. He doesn’t even notice Draco, just goes directly to the fridge and takes out two slices of toast, popping them in the freezer. He opens the fridge back up again, pouring himself a glass of milk. He turns as he drinks, finally seeing Draco gaping at him from the couch. He spits milk over the counter, hurriedly wiping it up with a cloth before it can dry down.

“What are you doing? It’s 8am!”

Draco blinks. “But you’re up.”

“Yeah. I’ve started going on runs with Hermione, don’t you remember?”

Draco can vaguely remember being told this, but everything else had been blocked out by his memory of the dream, including logical thought.

“You never wake up before 11 on days you don’t need to. Plus, I thought you were avoiding me.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

Harry blinks slowly now, not sure if he’s serious. “Like, remember, the whole…” He gestures, but Draco still doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “The whole, ehm, kissing? thing?”

“Wait, wait, hold up.” Draco suddenly feels like he’s back in the dream, or maybe he never woke up? Is this that weird inception thing that Ron and Harry always liked talking about?

“We kissed? I told you, remember? In the kitchen, then you went back to sleep and who knows after that.” He strips his armband off, lightning bolt gleaming against the golden shadows from the rising sun.

“I— I just woke up. I haven’t gone anywhere or done anything, unless I’ve recently started sleepwalking.”

Harry looks confused again. “So you weren’t avoiding me? You went back to sleep and I just thought you needed some space so I left you alone. Even asked if you wanted takeout last time, but no answer so I assumed I was being ignored.” He shrugs, takes another sip of his milk.

“That dream I had, where you told me I kissed you in a drunken haze, that was real?” Draco gets up, starts pacing the length of their (small) living room.

“Do you want it to be?”

And Draco is so thankful to God, to whoever is out there that at this instant, that he is facing away from him, towards the window. This gives him a couple seconds for recovery, even though his brain is still buffering, still running that goddamn Windows Vista OS. 

(He should really switch to a Mac or Linux OS.)

He whirls around, and despite his self vs. self monologue in his mind, he knows there’s only one answer.

“Yes.”

(He’s committed too much to this friendship, relationship, whatever, to lose it now in the blink of an eye.)

The golden sun casts a glow into the room, making their tattoos glow.

(Or was this just a trick of the light; wishful thinking?)

The fire alarm goes off for the third time, and Draco decides to call it a day. After a set of burned pancakes, 2 burned casseroles, and cookies so dry they had tasted like protein bars, he’s had enough. He admits defeat, putting the third burned pan in the sink, and knows he has a long night of scrubbing ahead of him. He calls that Thai place Harry loves, orders their usual as he tries to ignore the plates of carcinogens in the sink.

This would be their first “date”; after their odd early-morning confession from days ago, nothing had really changed. Both were too afraid to make a move, wary to hit any brick walls that might’ve been cloaked by friendly smiles.

By the time Harry gets home, Draco has cleaned—except for those dreaded pans, those definitely had to soak more if his tired arms had anything to say about it—and pulled some random half-finished bottle of wine out of the fridge. He sits at the table, set and glittering in the candlelight that illuminated the room.

Harry looks tired. Exhausted from a busy day of school and work, but that’s exactly why Draco did this.

He drops his bag on the floor, slides his shoes off, and sits in the chair. He smiles quietly.

“Did you do this for me? You… cooked?” 

But then he spots the takeout bag on the counter beside the stove, stuffed with empty containers. The food on the plates look far too edible for what Draco is capable of.

“Thanks for this.” Harry smiles bigger now, and Draco feels a tug at his heartstrings, an unexplainable affection. He picks up his wine glass, filled with red liquid.

“I really want to try, you know. I want to make sure that we’re both in this. Are you sure you’re okay with moving our friendship,” he trails off here, not knowing what words to use next. “Further? Into the realm of no return?” He attempts a joke, but it seems to work as the edges of Harry’s mouth twitch. He tilts his glass nearer the other.

Harry lifts the glass to the candlelight. He sees Draco looking at him expectantly, and raises the glass higher to clink with his. 

“Let’s do it.”

(Draco isn’t worried. He was really tired today, so probably not as enthusiastic. Plus, Harry had always been the more timid one of the too, too scared of commitment after his parents for fear of it being taken away. But Draco would show him: that he’d be there.)

(Draco is saying something about the three pans in the sink, an anecdote from the day. But Harry can feel his smile tiring. He wonders if he’s just chained himself to a life sentence, hopes Draco thinks its exhaustion weighing on him and not what it really is: hesitation. After all, Harry isn’t that cruel.)

(He tries to convince himself he isn’t.)

Their relationship is amazing; their friends and classmates already thought they were together, so it’s totally normal when they hold hands or kiss each other on the cheek.

(Even if they do do more alone, Draco was never one to kiss and tell.)

Their transition from friends to boyfriends?—Harry still feels weird using the word, but Draco assures him he’ll get over it with time—has been pretty smooth, and he supposes it was kind of a good thing that they had that relief of not needing to tell all of their friends about them. Though if they didn’t end up getting together, that would’ve been an awkward discussion.

And after a year, Draco is ready. By this time, he’s preparing for his midterms for his first semester of his final year, and he feels ready to commit. His and Harry’s relationship is stable, as steady as their friendship has been.

It seems that his soul knows so too, because by their one-year anniversary, he has a special gift to show Harry.

He forces him to sit down, blindfolded, and looks between his fingers, just to make sure it’s still there and not a figment of his overactive imagination. 

“Okay, you can take it off now.”

Draco beams as he shows off the tiny lightning bolt, pale yellow and outlined in grey, smudged as if drawn by watercolours. It’s on the side of his middle finger of his left hand, and he almost wouldn’t have noticed except he accidentally spotted it in the mirror one day.

Harry looks pleased, but not as excited as Draco is. “Wow, that’s pretty cool.”

Draco doesn’t mind, Harry’s always been more toned down than him. 

He rubs at it, beams at Harry. He’s proud. He’s committed. He’s  _ his _ .

He can feel it. 

Like when the sky isn’t that cloudy yet, but you can tell there’s a big storm coming in a couple days. 

And he’s been meaning to ask, really he has. But every time Harry comes home later than expected from going out with colleagues, he’s too tired to get into it.

He doesn’t want to question the other, why he doesn’t have his soul mark yet, even after almost a year of Draco having his. He doesn’t want to pressure him. But really, he’s tired. Tired of trying so hard for so little return, tired of pretending it’s okay Harry can’t commit to him.

He knows he’s too scared. Cowardly, to face the end of such a perfect relationship.

(But was it so perfect if it’s now coming to an end?)

But he doesn’t want it to end, hates knowing that the person he’s had as a constant for five, nearly six years. Harry has shaped his personality, who he is today, even some of his habits (for example, picking up towels so he won’t be nagged at by his “second mom”).

He doesn’t even know what it would be like without him, without another presence in the bed, another person in the house to coexist with.

So he rolls over, mumbles “Had a nice time with your friends?”, and listens for Harry’s reply.

It doesn’t deviate once to anything negative.

He can only roll over and hope he gains more courage tomorrow.

He does it when he least expects it. 

The words somehow just tumble out. They’ve been begging to be released, and just had enough of being trapped, unable to do anything. 

(Draco gets it.)

“Let’s break up.”

He’s not really sure if they’re his words or not; it doesn’t particularly matter.

They’re thinking the same thing anyways. It was just a matter of time, whoever mentioned it first. A winner and a loser, though he’s not really sure which is which.

(It doesn’t matter though. If he thinks about it, both of them have lost.)

“Okay.”

And that’s the anticlimactic end to an almost-seven-year relationship. From friendship, a romance that was steady, to nearly strangers. Again.

(Draco thinks, in the aftermath, when he stands in his empty apartment, Harry having moved to Cedric’s couch temporarily, that maybe they were too steady. Knew too much about each other, were too aware of the sensitive spots and never prodded, never mixed it up. But it’s too late now.)

A crack in the shape of a lightning bolt appears on one of his leaves, the yellow so pale it’s nearly unnoticeable against the stark white. A petal in the motion of falling appears below the rose, suspended forever in time on his arm.

He gets used to it, living alone. He never thought he would again, after living so long with someone. But he finds that a new thing he learns is: routines can change fast.

Him and Harry don’t keep in contact; if he happened to find a job in the neighbouring city, that was just good luck. 

Draco thinks it’s best they don’t—they were too interconnected for so long that they need to find themselves and who they are, before they can ever consider going back to friends.

And Draco’s glad. He likes the silence, as he can fill it with whatever he wants, no longer needing to consider another person. He finds that he likes going to the gym, enjoying the weight room the most. He loves cilantro, but could never buy it because Harry hated the way it smelled.

Most of all, he could relearn how to make friends.

After having a plus one for five years, making friends was an unnecessary skill. If he always had someone he knew he could talk to at school events or social gatherings, he never stressed about seeming lonely. But now, that muscle had atrophied.

Much like his (surprisingly) weak arms, he had to build back up from zero.

The first work event he went to, he didn’t talk to anyone but his boss and another close teammate. When he returned home, he was unpleasantly shocked about how low that had brought his spirits—enough so that he’d almost called Harry just to have that security, that safe feeling again—but he had overcome it, and as he ventured into more interests and hobbies, the amount of friends he had gradually grew.

(But sometimes, his fingers burned and seared, and he would miss the comfortable safety that he once knew.)

She’d been a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, and Draco was enraptured the moment he saw her. 

It was uncommon for face tattoos, though it was becoming more common as it became less taboo.

Her vines laced intricately in and out of her hairline from the left ear to just above the right eye, peeking through the dark hair as if actually sentient. The leaves were delicate, matching her so well he’d thought she was born with them.

He knew, heard whispers since the three years (no matter how hard their mutual friends had tried to shield him from “some girl with soft watercolour clouds as her soul mark”) that Harry’d found someone else. So there was clearly no guilt on his side. They were strangers again, nothing more than just a blip in each other’s lives.

But Draco still felt  _ something _ , something that prevented him from directly approaching her.

_ But not today _ , he decided. Today, his brain wouldn’t control him. He wouldn’t let it take away his chance, not like last time when he should’ve cut it off early, made the cut less painful.

Plus, he reasoned, it wasn’t like they were close. He didn’t even know her name, and had never seen her around before. He really had nothing to lose.

He swallows his fear around a glass of gold, alcohol fizzing at his nerves.

“Hey. I’m Draco. I came with Neville and Hannah? What about you?” His voice nearly cracked as he approached. It had been too long.

“Astoria, I know Hannah through her sister.” Her smile made him feel something he hadn’t since… No, he won’t compare her to him, wouldn't let that ruin whatever this was.

(His tattoo on his finger used to ache dully, especially at night when he could really feel the loneliness, feel it seep through his clothes and into his bones. 

But tonight, he forgot it was even there.)

The lightning bolt on the side of his middle finger of his left hand flashes hot. Draco barely notices it anymore, waving at his son as he runs out of sight and onto the schoolbus. 

He traces the small white rosebuds that have grown out of Astoria’s vines underneath her warm scarf. After years since appearing, he knows where the small, delicate flowers are without seeing. He thinks of his own armband of vines and smiles, still waving at his son who stops right before going into the yellow bus.

(Another boy, with jet black hair and green eyes, runs onto the bus behind him. For a second, Draco feels a flash of recognition—something in the eyes, they had seemed so familiar, yet strangely distant—but he waves it off.)

His arm stays on her shoulders as they turn, using the only comforting motion he only knows. He knows she’ll cry in the car, that they’ll cry together as they think about their son in fifteen years, leaving them for university. But for now, he just smiles in the cool September air. 

He breathes out, breath coming out in visible puffs in the air. It’s getting cold; he better remember to get Scorpius a warmer jacket for the winter.


	2. bonus

Harry tried, so, so hard to get his mark. He willed, tried to project it, begged every deity in the universe; yet one seemed to hear him.

He knew something was wrong. 

But like every coward, he had every reason to convince himself not to do it: he was too invested, committed five years and an apartment lease, and really didn’t want to lose a treasured friend, one that had comforted him through dark and tough times.

Yet he still knew it was inevitable. 

So he did all he could. He stayed out late for colleague dinners, went to social parties he knew Draco would be too tired to go to after school or work.

And he felt the guilt. The guilt, god, it eats away at a person.

He didn’t even notice at first, not till Cedric had pointed it out.

The two had become fast friends at their company, the two new recruits. They’d also get each other, being able to sit there and sip on their drink of choice, following all the people and their movements, but not feel the need to join in.

“Cool mark. When’d you get it?” Cedric gestures at the ring of thorns wrapping around his wrist. He knocks back the rest of his drink and calls for another, which buys Harry some time in which to fabricate some story.

He settles with the truth.

“I have no idea. In all honesty, I didn’t know it existed till you pointed it out right now.”

“Ouch. Looks like those—thorns, are they?—would hurt.”

After they break up, the thorns stay for good. He doesn’t mind them, almost searing a brand on him to never forget the guilt, the shame, the embarrassment, the sadness.

Karmic justice, he supposes.

But when she comes along, blows into his life, he has an epiphany: it’s never supposed to be forced. And it can be difficult, but his bracelet of thorns reminds him to never forget his past mistakes, his past regret.???

And Harry used to trace his lightning bolt, frown, wonder what it may reference in his life, where thunderstorms mean little more than wet shoes and puddles. Perhaps it occurred a long time ago, or far far away, in another world. Despite it all, he knows his soulmate would remain the same, the thread linking their lives into one. He would fight for it, no matter what.

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday! hopefully this is good enough, even though i still feel like i didn't flesh out the plot enough. thank you to M & M for beta-ing (and M for title, i actually really like it!!), for without them this would be even worse! hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think!! <333 (but also please when will this stop i'm begging you)


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